


Born with the Sea in Her Blood

by CRebel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cursed Storybrooke, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Other, The Enchanted Forest, The Jolly Roger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CRebel/pseuds/CRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumplestiltskin crushed Milah's heart, he robbed Killian Jones of more than the woman he loved -- he robbed him of the mother of his daughter, Adalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing from *Once Upon a Time.*

I can hear them going mad in town.

There are shouts, cries, screams . . . The soundtrack to all of the joy and confusion and rage released when we were. Released from the curse, the curse, the bloody damn curse. Oh, yes - I've no doubt that every emotion, every last one, and in its most powerful form, too, is spilling onto the streets of Storybrooke, holy water mixing with blood. But all of that chaos, it's background noise. Because what's going on out there is meaningless when I have it all going on in here, in this little bedroom, in this little boat . . . My boat? My bedroom? It's me, it's mine, but it's not. It's Callie's. Not –

_"Adalia."_

I say it out loud for the first time, my old name – my real name. Saying it is a mistake. It amplifies it all. The memories, and the feelings, the sights and – and the people – from my past – from Adalia's past –

_You are Adalia!_

"Adalia . . ."

I'm pacing. What the bloody hell am I still doing in my room? Next thing, I'm on deck. Deck! Hah! That's a laugh . . . This isn't a deck, not compared to –

But it's home.

No, it's not. Home is –

_You haven't had a home in years. Adalia. You haven't had a home in years._

The sea. I look out at the sea, lit by the sun, welcoming me back. Me. Adalia. Not Callie. Callie was fiction. A story. Callie never existed. Or if she did, she's dead. Or dying. Which means all of it never existed or is dead or is dying. The Sheriff's office. School. Cade . . . Cade?

And the fencing club! The bloody _fencing club!_

I almost laugh, but I can't, I can't catch my breath enough to do so. In town, pain or not, there are undoubtedly celebrations. Sure, everyone will be infuriated. The Queen will probably be dead before the day is out. People will want to return to the Enchanted Forest. But they're reunited with themselves, with their loved ones, their real loved ones. Oh, today will go down as a happy day . . . But not for me, not out here. Not on this dock, not on this boat, not in this heart.

Oh, but the sea . . .

_You, me, a ship, and the sea._

_Daddy. Daddy, I'm sorry._

Ignorance is bliss. That's the saying. And my ignorance was so blissful for so long, but now the cat's out of the bag, isn't it? No more bliss. No more teenage girl with a beautiful boyfriend and freedom and a peaceful life ahead of her. The thing about forgetting that your heart is broken? If you're unfortunate enough to remember, it breaks all over again. And if you're unfortunate enough to have a hundred different reasons why it should be shattered, then it's shattered a hundred times over again, and you want to scream, because the pain is impossible to contain and you need to release it somehow. And I try, I try to scream, but remember? My lungs aren't working quite right. Nothing is working quite right, nothing, nothing.

Except the sea. I smell the salt, I close my eyes . . . and I feel it then. Maybe I even do it. Make it happen. Callie Rogers dies. I'm certain of it -- certain enough. Yes, certain enough, she dies, she's dead, she is no more, not for real, and not in my mind . . . 

I open my eyes, Adalia. I am Adalia. And a deep, dark calm sweeps through me, as thick as blood. Hundreds of heartbreaks, hundreds of things I can't fix.

. . . . .

_"I can't go with you."_

_"Of course you can. You don't belong on this ship. You belong with other children. You belong with me . . ."_

_"My father –"_

_"Doesn't love you. Not like we can. Come with me, Addie. Come with me."_

. . . . .

I can't fix that. I can't fix that . . . but there is one thing I can fix. The oldest thing of all. The most important, for centuries it was the most important --

I'm steady now. My boat moves to the sound of my heartbeat as I reach for the edge. I look out at the sea, the one thing Callie and Adalia both knew and loved and lived and breathed and needed, and it lights a long-dead fire in my heart. Adalia lives.

I live. I am alive.

And I have to go skin a crocodile.


	2. Just a Clock

The text Sidney sent said to meet him at Granny’s at 7:15, but when I walk in at what the clock on the wall claims is 7:12 to see Sidney near the back of the diner, wearing an expression of pure exasperation, I’m not at all surprised. Partly because there is no such thing as being on time when Sidney Glass wants something from you; partly because Sidney loves to assert his self-perceived superiority over whomever he can, and looking exasperated is one of his favorite, albeit subtle, means to that end.    

Granny’s smells like fried food and syrup, which instantly makes my mouth water, Pavlov’s dog style. I catch Ruby’s eye – Ruby’s the only actual grandchild of Granny, and she’s all grown up (very, very grown up), and get a smile and a nod from her before I head towards my employer. That’s all it takes for me to order breakfast here. You could say I’m a bit of a regular.

Sidney is tapping his fingers on the table so fast they’re a blur. As I sit, he says, “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Ah, Sidney.

I shrug out of my trench coat, and, speaking in roughly the same tone one might use with a senile old man demanding pudding, say, “I’m early. And considering the fact that your text _jolted_ me from bed thirty minutes ago, I would say I’ve done quite well. I even put on lip gloss to ensure you could get the full effect of my remarkably endearing smile.” I give him said endearing smile. He scowls. No, my charm doesn’t work on Sidney. In all honesty, I don’t mind – it makes him great fun to play with. “Now,” I say, straightening my vest – school uniform, standard issue, I loathe the thing – “What can I do for you?”    

He slides a newspaper – his newspaper, _The Storybrooke Daily Mirror_ – across the table. I flip it around and gaze into the drooping black-and-white version of a woman’s eyes. She’s in her mid-to-late twenties, I’d say, with long, light hair – also notable is that the photograph is a mugshot. Stranger Destroys Historic Sign, proclaims the paper. Alcohol Involved.   

“Who am I looking at?”

Sidney leans over the table and lowers his voice. “Her name is Emma Swan.”    

“Okay, and _why are we whispering about her?”_

“Because she’s sitting at the counter behind you.”    

I twist around and find her right away. If I had had reason to look, I could have found her without Sidney’s prodding – a stranger is a sore thumb in Storybrooke. From my angle, I can only see her long blonde curls, defined cheekbones, the tip of her nose, but, again – sore thumb. I could identify nearly every person in this town from this view, most of us could. Welcome to Storybrooke.    

I turn again to Sidney. “What’s she doing here?”    

“Making trouble.”    

“I can see that. I hate when strangers destroy historic signs. Was that her sole purpose?”

He sighs, dark eyes threatening me with death. God, he might be my favorite toy. “She’s making trouble _for the mayor.”_

I incline my head. Sidney is rarely so candid about the fact that every move he makes comes by order (or at least is approved by) our dear Mayor Mills. “In what way?”    

“She’s Henry’s mother,” he says, then flinches and corrects, “Biological mother.”   

At this, I can’t resist turning to check out the woman again, even though I can’t see her face. When I’m done taking in the side of her head for the second time, I quietly say, “Alright, then. What’s Henry’s biological mother doing here?”   

“Henry brought her.”

“Henry – how?”    

“He tracked her down, asked her to come. Somehow he got her to stick around.”    

“Does she want back into his life?”   

“Reg – Mayor Mills thinks so. Miss Swan’s booked a room at the inn. She doesn’t seem to have any intention of leaving soon.”    

“Mmhmm. And is this defacement of Miss Swan –” I hold up the paper, he looks away, twitching his hand – “connected in any way to her decision to stay?”    

“I printed that up before I knew she’d gotten a room.”    

I put the paper down, stretch my legs out beneath the table, fold my hands in my lap. “Alright. Henry’s mother is a sign-destroying drunkard, so be it. What do you want from me?”    

“Whatever you can find on her.”    

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you this, Sidney – isn’t digging up dirt your job?”  

“I procure hard-to-find information from government vaults,” he says flatly. “Lying down with the dogs is where you come in.”   

I grin. “I do have a soft spot for mongrels.”   

His patience is wearing as thin as the veil of professionalism he tries so desperately to cling to. “Will you do this?”    

I sigh. “Haven’t turned you down this far into our arrangement, have I?”

He nods once. The deal is made. “Henry is going to be at your, uh – whatever-you-call-it this afternoon.”   

“I typically call it fencing,” I say. “A fencing class.”   

“Right. Which you’re still not qualified to teach, I assume.”   

“I don’t teach it, the club does, I just happen to be team captain and –” I hold out my arms “– the best member. And we’re running the class out of the goodness of our hearts, so I don’t think we actually require any qualification . . .”    

He stands up. He stopped listening sometime after “member,” I’d say, so really I’m surprised it took him so long to abandon me. He pulls out his wallet. A fifty-dollar bill falls onto Emma Swan’s mugshot. I draw my knee into the chair and the bill into my boot.  

“Talk to him, the mayor says he likes you.” Sidney’s eyes and thoughts are already beyond me.  

“Aye-aye, boss.”

"And see if you can get close to our special guest herself.”    

“I know what I’m doing, Sidney.” I’ve done it before.    

He gives me the same doubting, demeaning look he gives me every time I’m about to do the damn thing he hired me to do, and then he leaves. I exhale, mutter Good riddance – it’s funny how the most entertaining toys so often break the fastest. 

I study Emma Swan’s truly awful picture a little while longer before rifling through the thin pages of the paper. Almost exactly halfway through, I find what I’m looking for, what I can never help looking for –

 _Sketches of Storybrooke._ By Callie Rogers.

Today, my little gift to the world is a depiction of Marco in his shop, sanding a soon-to-be bench for the park, no charge, because that’s the kind of man Marco is. He also happens to be a great person to draw – he carries on with his work, carries on a conversation, acts like you come in to stare at him every day. He’s a far cry from, for example, Dr. Archie Hopper, who couldn’t stop grinning like a wax figurine when I tried to sketch him on the street with his dog Pongo a couple of weeks ago. I ended up just using Pongo.    

“I love this one.”   

Ruby. She places a plate and a mug next to the paper and taps the print of the sketch with a red-painted nail. “You got him just right. That focused look and all . . . Although I was wondering when you planned on doing another one of me . . .”   

“Because you don’t get enough attention?” I ask innocently, reaching for the coffee. Ruby smiles in a way that is somehow equal parts modesty and naughtiness. As she smooths the apron that hangs too low to cover her bare midriff, I sip the drink, a salted caramel latte, as delicious as it is every morning. Ruby has a gift, I swear it. She can also make an astounding peanut butter and (raspberry) jam (not jelly) sandwich and toast it to perfection. For as long as I can remember, I’ve come to Granny’s for breakfast before school, and as long as I can remember, Ruby has been my hero. “God,” I say as I lower the mug, licking my lips. “Ruby, this is delicious. I adore you.”    

“Yeah, I make a good latte. You can do that.” She nods at the paper, then at me. “You’ve got some serious talent, Callie.”

“You’re sweet.” I trail my fingers over the paper, over my work. Once upon a time, I thought Sidney truly only wanted me on the payroll for my sketches. Oh, to be young and naïve once more. Sixteen’s proving much harder than the previous years, but emancipation does that to a girl, I suppose. 

_Sketches of Storybrooke_. This is how I make my living, if you ask anyone from this town, Ruby included. I give Sidney a new set of sketches every week, he prints them up, pays me.

But what people don’t know is that that payment is a far cry from a living wage. Which is why there’s another side to my job with _The Daily Mirror_. A hidden side that leads me into situations like spying on the biological mother of an adorable boy whose adoptive mother happens to be a known witch. Or something that rhymes with _witch_.    

But I try not to dwell on the nature of my job.   

Ruby leaves me to my meal, and I eat it fast, so I can go happen upon Emma Swan at the counter and worm my way into her heart and steal her secrets, et cetera, et cetera . . . But when I drain the last of my latte and stand, it’s in time to hear the bell above the door chime, in time to catch Swan leaving, led by a little boy with dark hair and a scarf. Henry. I lean back on my heels and watch them go, and through the windows, I get a good view of Swan’s profile for the first time – Henry has her nose. And Henry, right before he and his mother disappear from view, looks back at her, beaming. Which is lovely. I see him twice a week for the fencing class, and his smiles have been getting harder and harder to come by.    

Later today, I’ll manipulate what answers I can from him.    

I twist my right-hand ring. The silver ring, with the onyx embedded into the band. It lives on the ring finger. My left-hand ring lives on the little finger and has a tiny black jewel in it. I actually have no idea what type of jewel it is, as Mr. Gold is the only one in town I know of who can tell me, and Mr. Gold is more or less a –    

“Who’s the drunk girl?” someone says from behind me.    

I take a breath. “Her name’s Emma Swan. And she isn’t drunk in that picture.”    

“Headline says ‘Alcohol Involved.’”    

“I know how to spot a drunk.” I turn and look at Cade Harper, sitting where Sidney did, holding _The Mirror_ and squinting at Swan’s mugshot like a detective. Or, like a six-year-old pretending to be a detective. “Whereas you know how to be one.”    

He looks up at me and grins. “Somebody’s in a mood this morning.” His blonde hair, still damp from the shower, falls in front of his eyes as they crinkle at the corners – he looks older than his nineteen years. Which is probably why he can get his hands on alcohol so easily.    

I pop my eyebrows but give him a smile. “I’m just tired.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “And I’m going to be late.”    

He drops the paper and yawns dramatically. “Then let’s get you to school, young lady.”

“You’re my escort, now?”    

He shakes his head, stands, pushes his chair back under the table without worrying about the screeching noise it sends throughout the diner. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. Stoplight’s out around there. Leroy wanted me to take a look at it.”   

“Mm. Did he say please?”   

“Yes, and then he kissed my hand like the gentleman he is . . . Ruby!”    

“No shouting across the diner!” Granny shouts across the diner, appearing apparently out of nowhere, perhaps to balance the books, perhaps to scold Cade. He flashes a smile and steps over to the counter, where Ruby hands him the bagel and Styrofoam coffee cup she puts aside for him each morning. He says some smooth words and ducks his head, but when I pay, he doesn’t. He’s one of the few people I can name who can get away with that, and it’s only because Granny and Ruby know where to find him when the tab’s run up too high. He has nowhere to go but the inn.    

I stop when we’re outside, to button up my coat. Cade takes a few steps down the street, ruffling his hair, and the wind catches his scent and blows it back to me. I inhale. Aftershave and cigarettes. He must have lit up right after the shower. I don’t think he likes going out without the smell of smoke on his clothes. Some of the girls he’s dated have complained to me about it, and I never know what to tell them. Never particularly want to help them, anyway, because those same girls usually complain to Cade about me.    

“Hey.” I slip my hands into my pockets and catch up to him as he tears into his bagel like an animal. “Can I sketch you this afternoon? Between three and four?”    

He chews, swallows. We move along the street, down to the crosswalk. Past the store windows with all of the pretty things no one ever seems to buy. “Didn’t you sketch me, like, a month ago?”    

“Are you really going to turn down free publicity? This could be your key to being discovered. Getting a record deal.”    

“A record deal in Storybrooke? Hah. You know I don’t expect to get rich and famous until I have enough money to leave this place.”    

“Nobody leaves Storybrooke.”    

Cade and I live in one of those little towns filled with people who swear they’re on the verge of leaving and just – don’t. And Cade and I have talked about that, on late nights when one or both of us are delirious from lack of sleep (me) or from drinking (him). But he always just laughs, exactly like he is now, and says –   

“I’m not nobody.”    

He sips his coffee. We’re at the crosswalk, he punches a button on a pole and we wait for a little glowing man to tell us we can walk.

“I know you’re not,” I say, and leave it at that. Because maybe he will go. Hell, he probably will. Probably soon. If anyone can . . .    

“You’re not nobody, either,” he says matter-of-factly. He looks at me, neck loose, head hanging back. Gives me the half-smile that sometimes makes me believe he might just have all the secrets. “And you could leave anytime you want. Just jump on a boat and go.”    

“Yes, it’s that simple.”   

“You have a boat.”

“I don’t have money.”    

His smile grows, leaves wisdom behind for the wonderful world of mischief. “So steal it.”   

“You’re the outlaw,” I mutter. “Not I.”    

The glowing man tells us we can walk. We do. The school is about twenty minutes from here by foot. I ask Cade what time it is, and he cheekily answers 8:15, as I should have expected.   

“The joke that never gets old . . . Seriously, how late am I –?”   

“What the hell?”    

He’s stopped in the middle of the street, gazing up with his mouth a little open. I follow his eyes to the clock tower stretching up from the library that’s never been open. “Well,” I murmur, “Would you look at that . . .”   

It’s the clock. For as long as I can remember, the hands have been stuck at 8:15, hence Cade’s bad joke. But now – now they’re at 7:49. No, 7:50. The long hand just ticked forward. It’s actually working. “I take it from your tone of surprise,” I say to Cade, “that Storybrooke’s custodial services had nothing to do with this?”    

“Not unless Leroy forgot to tell me about it on our date last night.”   

“What would your children look like?”    

“Sexy short guys with dreamy dark eyes and manly-man beards. They would also have the voices of angels.”    

“It disturbs me that you have an answer to that ready to –”    

“Excuse me.”    

I twist and meet the eyes of Mr. Gold. His lips curl up in some sort of smile. His eyes, however, are stone. Probably because we’re blocking his way. Also, he’s Mr. Gold.   

“Sorry.” I step to the side – for the record, there’s plenty enough room for Gold to have simply rolled his eyes at our (admitted) rudeness and gone around us, like any normal adult would – and I pull Cade along with me. He plants his feet once Mr. Gold’s way is cleared and gives the pawnbroker a _Have a good day, jackass_ kind of smile. Cade has millions of different smiles. A lot of them are actually indications that he hopes you get hit by a bus.    

But Mr. Gold’s eyes slide over Cade like his handsome face isn’t even there. Those eyes, they meet mine again briefly as Gold limps past, cane clicking on the asphalt. I don’t know how he got his limp. Gold and I have never sat down for a chat, and I don’t have much of a desire to. He always gives me a bit of a chill. “It’s just a clock, dear,” he tells me softly. Then I watch him go down the way we just came from, off to his shop for a hard day of doing whatever the hell a rich man does. I twist my onyx ring.   

“I could listen to him talk all day,” Cade murmurs, starting to walk again. “I love European accents . . . You coming, my sweet little English muffin?”    

I pull my eyes from Gold and roll my shoulders back. “Yeah.” 

On the sidewalk, as Cade swallows the last of his bagel, I clear my throat and say, “You never answered whether or not you would sit for the sketch.”   

“Anything for you, Callie.”

“Bring your guitar, would you? I liked the one I did of you with it, last time . . .”    

“Where? And you said between three and four?”  

“Yes, and – the picnic tables, outside of the cafeteria. I need to stay close, I have –”    

“The fencing class, I know . . . but are you sure Sidney won’t mind you sketching the same person four times in the span of . . . what, three months? Even one as –” Here he mocks my accent, as he is prone to do – “ _devilishly handsome_ as I?”    

My hands come together, I fiddle with my left-hand ring this time. “Sidney doesn’t care.” 

“You’re playing with your rings.”   

“No, I’m not. It’s a figment of your imagination. As a matter of fact, all of this is; you’re only dreaming.”    

“No, I know I’m not dreaming. If I were dreaming, Ruby would have been wearing a Catholic school girl outfit. Or nothing. What’s wrong?”   

“I’m just . . . busy. School stuff, you know.”    

“Ah, Callie . . . Don’t worry about it.” He tosses his coffee cup into a trash can, and the next thing I know, there’s a cigarette in his mouth. “Hell, I dropped out of school –” He lights up, puffs out smoke – “and I’m doing just fine.”   

I don't smoke, but he's gotten me to like the smell of cigarettes, which can't be a good thing. The grey cloud snakes around his head and flees to the sky, fast, so I only inhale a tiny bit. And then I have to let that bit fly away, too.


	3. The Girl Seen with Pirates

**THE ENCHANTED FOREST**

Somehow, Adalia had managed to avoid being locked away until now. Unfortunate. She had a long list of other streaks she would have been much happier to break.

The dungeon was everything a good and proper dungeon should be. Dark and dank, underground, muddy – Oh, she hoped the gunk on her boot was mud. She leaned against the back wall, arms and legs crossed; she appeared to be a woman completely at ease. In reality, however . . . well, she was certainly out of her element.  
  
And she didn't feel like a woman so much as a girl.

_Stick to the plan. You know what to do._  
  
Footsteps. From several pairs of boots. They echoed down the long brick corridor as incomers neared the bend before Adalia's cell. Their shadows danced madly in the torchlight and warned of larger-than-life visitors, so when five perfectly average-sized men finally came into view, it was a bit anticlimactic. Enough so that Adalia smiled. As the men came toward her, she went towards them. And as she draped her arms through the iron bars, she realized that, while four of the men were dressed in the predictable sort of armor she had seen on every palace guard she had ever come across, their leader was not. She inclined her head. The man was dressed in a white shirt, blue pants, and a pair of shining boots that must have cost a pretty penny or two or thousands. Her eyes slid up. His black hair was without fault. And those blue eyes . . .  
  
“You’re Prince Eric,” she said.  
  
He came too close to the bars, well within arm's reach. Not a smart move, but she wasn’t about to try anything. “And you’re . . . ?” the prince said, not unkindly.  
  
She gave him a devilish - no, a flirtatious - grin. “Imprisoned? Brunette? Charming beyond all belief?”  
  
There was a twitch at the corner of his lip. “I was hoping for a name.”  
  
He still spoke gently. A good sign. She had been told that he was kinder than his father, which was why she was hoping Daddy would send the future king down to deal with such trivial business as she.  
  
Well, that and other reasons.  
  
“It’s Adalia,” she said.  
  
“Adalia. That’s a very pretty name.”  
  
“Ah, that’s kind. And you’re not even the charming prince.” She smiled wide enough to make it clear she was mocking him. The fact that she dropped the smile just as fast drove the point home, and Prince Eric furrowed his brow. _Good_. Now he was confused. Confused men were the best kind. Adalia propped her chin on one of the bars. “Tell me something, Not-the-Charming-Prince – don’t you think it might be a bit much to lock away a petty thief in the royal dungeons? Honestly, your men should have just taken my hand. Saved your time as well as mine.”  
  
“I have no interest in crippling young women. Neither does my father.”  
  
“Well, advise your father to cripple me or execute me . . . your _Highness_.” She tilted her head down, pierced him with the green-grey eyes she had taught herself to use so well, for so many things other than seeing. “Those are the only two ways you’ll keep me in here, alive, for very long.”  
  
It surprised her a bit that he smiled. But it was not a happy smile. “You have a restless spirit, I take it?”  
  
She lifted an eyebrow.  
  
“I can relate.” He ducked his head for a moment, and Adalia couldn’t help eyeing the sword at his belt. But she stood at attention when he spoke again. “You’re in the royal dungeons,” he explained, “because you’re more than a petty thief. You stole no jewels, no money. You stole maps. Very important maps that could do a lot of damage if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”  
  
Adalia said nothing.  
  
“And, upon being caught by my men . . . you commenced to draw your sword and defeat three of them.”  
  
“I did defeat them. I did not, however, kill them. You’re welcome. Your sailors got their bloody maps back, and I spared three lives I didn't have to – albeit with a little bloodshed on their part. But wounds heal, death doesn’t. My point, dear Prince, is that I believe we’re even. Why don’t we all just call it a day and go home?”  
  
“Why did you let them live?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why did you let them live?”  
  
She tapped her fingers on the iron bars. “There was no point in killing them. Your men had me surrounded.”  
  
“But it would have been self-defence,” Prince Eric said.  
  
Adalia brought her hands together, twisted one of her rings. “You’ve found me out, your Highness. I don’t like killing.” She paused. Softer, she said it again: “I don’t like killing . . .”  
  
“No,” the prince said quietly. “I didn’t think you did.”  
  
Adalia lowered her eyes.  
  
“But we’ve received reports that the crew of _The Tiger’s Eye_ was spotted with a young woman who appeared to be very skilled in swordplay.”  
  
“ _The Tiger’s Eye_?” Adalia widened her eyes. “That pirate ship your men let dock a fortnight ago?”  
  
“A mistake,” Prince Eric said, for a moment losing hold of his sweet disposition, which was nearly satisfying to Adalia; she found it much easier to deal with someone she wanted to throttle. “One that will never happen again, I can assure you.”  
  
That was when Adalia became certain that this man had little to no experience with pirates. Or guards who loved gold. Or guards who enjoyed life. No, a man who knew pirates knew that putting them with either or both of those last two elements made docking a pirate ship as easy and natural as a sunset.  
  
All she said, however, was, “Well, I suppose that’s good to hear.”  
  
“They tell me this girl – the one seen with the pirates – was small in stature, but strong and quick, with long dark hair.”  
  
“She sounds lovely.”  
  
The prince huffed out a breath and rubbed his eyes. “Can we please stop playing games?” he asked.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re –”  
  
“You were the girl on the pirate ship.”  
  
Adalia took a deep breath.  
  
Prince Eric said, “You’re a pirate.”  
  
The words weren’t loud enough to echo through the dungeon. But they repeated in Adalia’s mind all the same. Soon enough, a tear slipped from her cheek. “I never wanted to be,” she whispered.  
  
“I know,” said the prince, his voice gentle and sweet again. “I can tell. That’s why I’m going to help you.”  
  
She wiped away the tear. “In what way, your Highness?”  
  
He stepped closer. “By giving you a chance to help the Maritime Kingdom and earn your pardon.”  
  
“I – I’m a pirate, how can I be pardoned –?”  
  
“As I said.” He found her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re going to help the Maritime Kingdom.”  
  
Adalia widened her eyes again. She wiped away a tear again. And then she smiled at the prince again, this time in a way that made his heart melt for her.  
  
What the prince didn’t know was that Adalia’s smiles were something else she had taught herself to use so well, for so many things.


End file.
